A Cheating Man's Heart

by Derrick Jaxn

  “How long ago?”

  “Uh…umm I guess maybe like a month or so. Not long after you said you’d have to start calling me a little later in the evenings.”

  “And not once did anyone wanna fill me in?”

  “I mean we didn’t do anything. It was just conversation. I never kissed him or hung out with him or anything, I promise. I’m so sorry. I know I was wrong but we can get past thi-”Click.

  I had heard more than enough. I couldn't believe she had the nerve to justify it all because they didn’t physically hook up. Hell, I didn’t know if I believed that either. As far as I was concerned, she was somebody I thought existed; just a figment of my imagination and love was in the same category.

  I was cold, and had all intentions on remaining that way. As for my “brother”, I had to admit where we stood. Surely he knew that I found out what’d been going on, and he had yet to come out and talk about it. Honestly, he didn’t owe me anything. Not an explanation, not honesty, and not a friendship. But if he was on fire and I had a cup of water, I’d drink it. Slowly. With a straw. That would sum up our brotherhood from then on for all I cared.

  It was time to move on. After Brittney finally got the message that it was over between us, she felt free to explore whatever it was her and Alvin had going on. Neither one of them spared their public display of affection in school, and it was the talk of the 10th grade class. It was easier to pretend I didn’t care rather than admit it was killing me. Sometimes it's the people you'd give the shirt off your back that are the first ones to stab you in it. Lesson learned.

  As a teenager, your insecurities become the laws of attraction. I never before realized my narrow shoulders, lack of muscle mass on my 5’10", 160 pound frame, and how huge my feet were. I was the only 15 year old I knew whose shoe size matched his age.

  I wasn't old enough to get tattoos nor interested in the thought of them. I didn't need my name branded on me to remember it and on my dark skin, a design was more likely to turn out like a silhouette.

  Still determined for an upgrade, I went outside and got Mr. Macklin's old rusted weight set out of the garage; it was not only a health hazard, it was damn near a booby-trap. There were spiders everywhere and screws were missing in the bench so it always felt like it was going to tip over.

  As trifling as it was, it became my own little distant island I could escape to nightly to purge energy that would’ve otherwise been spent over thinking. Night after night, I kept going faithfully. Lifting more, and weighing more, becoming addicted to the feeling of being physically superior to my former self.

  By my 12th grade year I had put on 60 pounds of muscle, and stood at 6’4. In a society obsessed with physical appearance, this not only changed me, but it also changed everyone around me. I was no longer just the new kid at school. I was officially in the upper echelon as a jock.

  Jocks had life easy. More girls, more handshakes, and probably the best thing was the look on my ex’s face when she saw me with my new girlfriend of the moment. Love was out the question. I played the hand I was dealt and I was winning. Despite all of that, my life felt like a brand new engine that wouldn't stop leaking, and I didn't know how to plug it.

  One day I was cleaning up and ran across a box of love letters from Brittney. I told myself to just trash it and keep it moving but like always, I didn't listen. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just take a peek before it was gone for good. Like clockwork, I was right back listening to my Since You Been Gone playlist trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

  There was no way I could go through the rest of my life with loose ends, but did that mean I should reach out to her to tie them? No. I’d rather tea bag a bear trap. I learned my lesson about handing out my heart.

  That moment, I made a conscious decision to start becoming a man. My own man. It was time that I finally got to know life on a first-name basis instead of just through word-of-mouth. It was time for me to clean my slate and leave for college.

  Chapter 3

  Me, Myself, and...Damn Who Is That?

  From my first step on the campus of Tuskegee University, nothing was the same.

  There were people from all over the world with different personalities and backgrounds. Being that it was an HBCU, the one thing we had in common was our race with the exception of the one white boy in band and the madly in love couple from Spain who played on the tennis team. Other than that, there were a lot of new faces waiting to be met, but I was still on a mission to get to know me first.

  I decided to become spiritually in tune with myself. I always had a relationship with God, but I could never quite get a handle on Christianity. No matter how many times I fasted, sat on the front row at church, sang along with the choir, abbreviated cuss words and repented when they slipped; something about me never quite got it right and I got tired of asking questions no one had answers to. Like who King James was and why we should trust his version of the bible. I wasn't expecting the pastor to provide me with his résumé, but I thought it was fair to know a little about Mr. James' biography. His favorite colors. Something.

  After asking so many questions and getting the same answer, "Pray about it.", I decided I could do that from my dorm room with Joel Osteen smiling on my little TV that sat atop the mini fridge. At least there, I knew it wouldn't be a collection plate passed around four or five times while I got the side-eye for plucking the bottom to make it sound like I made a deposit.

  Besides, the guilt of giving into my flesh did more to distract me than help me find myself. So I made peace by agreeing that if God gave it to me, then there must've been a reason for it. I figured it'd be better to find out the reason the hard way, than to die and never know at all.

  So, it was time for my hormones to experience emancipation at its finest. To do so, I followed the Single Man’s Code of Conduct(SMCC); a little something I invented to maintain ethical responsibility while I was having my fun.

  The SMCC consisted of 10 rules:

  1. Never have unprotected sex. Wrap it up, strap twice, pull out early, morning after pill, water hose it down afterwards. You can never be too safe.

  2. Never tell any secrets of your past. That’s when you’re forced to trust.

  3. Never go out on dates that are in broad daylight, nor show you were thinking about her. Completely generic dinner and movie dates are allowed but that’s it.

  4. Never give or accept gifts from the heart. Those are tiny investments of love that you never notice until everything’s ended and it’s time to get rid of them.

  5. Never answer calls before booty call hours. Otherwise you’ll position yourself as someone who’s there when needed.

  6. Never allow tagged photos on Facebook. If this rule is broken, they must be blocked and ignored for some other unforeseen reason you’re too emotional to discuss.

  7. Never use words like “beautiful”, “amazing”, or “special” to describe what you think of them. Those are danger words when it comes to the heart.

  8. Never tell the truth about what’s on your mind. You’ll indirectly rely on them to care and if they do, you’re screwed.

  9. Never meet her friends. They will catch you doing something. You can’t avoid that. When they do, you need to be able to say they don’t know you.

  10. Never allow feelings room to grow. If for whatever reason they slip in, you have to cut it off.

  If there was a right way to be single, this was it.

  Sure, from time to time there were drinks thrown in my face, but so what? Even a dead clock is right twice a day. Mine, maybe not so frequent, but it worked for me.

  Girls came and went like a revolving door. They would accept the terms of agreement at first and then later ask the infamous question, "So...what are we doing?" I'd reply with "What you think? The same thing we do every night," and of course, it never went over well, so they moved on to the next man. The last thing I was doing was losing sleep over keeping my heart a priority. My circle was tight, I trusted people’s a
ctions over their promises, and I was no longer apologizing for who I was. Things were finally going my way.

  While I came across a lot of pretty faces, there were none quite like Jazmin. She was cut-throat, a little hoodrat, and funny as hell. Long, expensive weave, curves to live for, and a walk like Tyra, even in flats. Jazmin was that Mary J. Blige back in the '90s type of chick that every man desired, even if for one night.

  She did a little urban car show modeling in high school before she moved from Atlanta. Had dreams of going mainstream but didn't like the idea of nice hips being misconstrued as "plus-sized". So it was either the stripper pole or student loans. Luckily she got a scholarship.

  We had amazing sex, a lot of it. Still young, but old enough to know what to do and brave enough to try more. We pushed our bodies to the limit, almost got caught a few times, but played it off and tried again later somewhere else. The only thing between our sex and perfection was the lack of emotion. We were friends, but both of us were determined to prove how little we could care about the other. The way I wanted it.

  My entire freshman year, I had my team led by this down-ass female who wasn't ready for a relationship, every bachelor's dream. But like most, I hit the snooze button one too many times, and Jazmin was giving me the “we gotta talk” talk before I knew it.

  "It's not you, it's me," she said. Blunt without so much as the courtesy to pretend she cared.

  "Wait, what you mean it's over? I thought we were just, you know, chilling. You can't break up with me if there's nothing to break."

  "Oh, but I can and I am."

  "Why fix it if it's not broken? Where is all of this coming from anyway?"

  "It is broken. I don't wanna be ya placeholder pussy any more. I'm ready to settle down and actually try the relationship thing."

  "Relationship? Look, if it makes you feel better then fine. Be my girlfriend."

  "Boy stop. What I look like? For one, I don't want you, and two, I have somebody that wants me more than just part time. Run that shit on them other chicks you be dealing with."

  "Oh, so now you better than them?"

  She cut her eyes at me.

  "C'mon Jaz, you being dramatic. Okay, look. We can stop the sex, but let's at least be friends. For real this time, just friends." I gave her the puppy dog face. I didn't really care about being 'friends'; I just wanted to stay in the picture in case things fell out with her new guy. Classic technique.

  She curled her lips and rolled her eyes."Aight. We can still be cool, but don't get fresh because I really like Lewis, and I don't wanna mess this up."

  "Wait, you're going out with Lewis? Basketball Lewis? Word on campus is he's a jerk."

  "Well, he's not to me. Long as he's not playing me, I'mma stay down for him." She shook her head affirmatively like she was agreeing with herself.

  "You down with his money. Everybody knows his friends ain't his friends. They are his red Camaro with the Lambo' doors' friends."

  "Has nothing to do with his car. I mean it ain't like I never been in a Camaro before. It takes more than that."

  "Okay whatever. Can I still come over for dinner though? I don't even have to stay. You can leave it by the door when you done and I'll just come pick it up." We both started laughing even though I was partly serious. She could cook her ass off and I'd be damned if I gave up on the hot plates that easy.

  I had a feeling this all was just a cry for attention anyway. Yeah, I was that narcissistic. As far as my sex life was concerned, the show must go on.

  I got in my first class of the spring semester and all of my classmates came back looking fresh, wearing everything on their Christmas list. I sat in my usual seat towards the back with the rest of the in-class text messagers and exam whisperers, prowling for new talent to add to my team.

  I looked to the door and saw a prospect walking in. Her stride was a little awkward, almost dorky, but she was cute. Hair was natural textured into a neat bun, and she had slanted eyes. A little on the classy side with her attire, but I’ve never shied away from a challenge. Sometimes, girls will try to throw you off by not showing cleavage or calling attention to themselves but I was no rookie. I knew the game and I knew it well.

  I ran a full background check on her by the time she sat down and I liked what I saw. On the front of her binder were some professional photos of her; one with a saxophone, the others more along the lines of Wal-Mart catalog ads with her smiling on a swing set and what-not.

  This one was going to be interesting, and I couldn’t wait for class to let out. When it did, I wasted no time.

  “Hey, wha's good ma.” I said with that look in my eye and a half grin. She paused long enough to give me the Who the hell you talking to face and proceeded to pack her books. But I wouldn’t be defeated that easily. I had work ethic.

  “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I meant to say, hello, how are you, Danielle?”

  “Do I know you?” she said with an honestly curious expression, waiting for a response.

  I was in.

  “Well, no...I mean not yet. But I was hoping to-“

  “Then how’d you know my name?”

  It wasn't supposed to go like that. “Well, unless you write your stage name at the top of your paper, I figured Danielle would be you. Are you like a model or musician or something?” I said, looking at the pictures on her binder.

  “No, well, not the model part. Those are my senior pictures from high school, and I play the saxophone in my free time.”

  She played saxophone. That was different. Can’t say I had anybody that was musically gifted on the roster. It was time to change that.

  “Well, Danielle, I don’t play any instruments but I’d love to hear you play sometime. Maybe we can get together outside of class and you can show me a thing or two?” I said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

  She rolled her eyes and walked off. I think I had her sold until the last part. A little too strong.

  That encounter stuck with me the rest of the day. How she was able to resist my charm so effortlessly baffled me. My résumé was solid; tall, dark, handsome, in shape, my own car. It was no Beamer, but at 18 years old, I wasn't doing half bad.

  I had on my fitted shirt that day, and if my breath was stinking, I'm sure someone would've told me. What was her problem? Maybe she had a man and was pretending to be faithful. A little reverse psychology to trick me into respecting her.

  They say you win some, you lose some, but I just lost one in Jazmin. I wasn’t about to let this one slip through my fingers.

  The next day I went to plan B. I wore another fitted shirt, this one a size smaller hugging tight into my armpits, did a few push-ups, sprayed on the smell-good, and had my mustache freshly lined up. The peach fuzz on my chin was a work in progress so I left that alone. I cherished every strand I had.

  I went to class late so she could see me walk in as I did my best Obama after the Osama’s Dead Announcement strut to my seat. There was even an ocean side breeze and Shaft theme song playing, or at least that’s what it felt like.

  “Sorry, I’m late," I said to my professor. "My puppy looked a little under the weather so I rushed her to the veterinarian and refused to leave her side until I knew she was all right. It won’t happen again."

  I got a few giggles from my classmates, but the only thing between my math professor and Korea was a green card, so I doubt she understood what I said. She gave a generous smile, nodded her head, and went on teaching.

  I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw Danielle. By her lack of reaction I could see she missed my introduction, but I didn't panic. There was plenty more where that came from.

  I had set the tone, but now it was time for the real show. My Teacher’s Pet routine deserved a patent for how effectively it could make any slacker look like a hard-working A student. Only three simple steps to follow:

  1. Look up at the board, count to 20, mouthing each number so it looks like you’re following along then put your head down to scribble approxima
tely two to three seconds. This is the attentive note-taking technique.

  2. If you see someone’s hand go up, raise yours shortly after but before they get called on so that when the teacher finally gets to you, you can just say, “Oh never mind, that answered my question.”

  3. Repeat as necessary.

  Oh yes, the players may change but the game remains the same. I was Kobe in the fourth quarter, and I'd be damned if I was passing the ball. I followed the routine to a T, didn't miss a beat nor look to see if she noticed. I knew she did, and of course, she was impressed.

  Professor Kim dismissed class and it was time to reap the benefits. I turned my head to Danielle's seat to see her gone and halfway out the door. Shit, not again I thought. I never chased a girl in my life, but I was about to bounty hunt this one because I went through entirely too much to not even be dignified with a rejection.

  I grabbed my books and rushed out behind her, keeping a safe distance so I didn’t blow my cover. My only chance to get her to stop and talk was if she took the elevator. Sure enough, there was a crowd already squeezing in so she went flying down the stair-case.

  I had to think fast.

  “Hey, Danielle, wait up, you forgot something!” slipped out my mouth. I was brainstorming for another lie to follow up with so I wouldn’t seem like a creep. I tapped my pockets, felt my answer. “Your pen! You forgot your pen.” I yelled, reaching it out to her.

  She didn’t even look at the pen. “That’s not mine. Besides, everyone knows not to use an ink pen in a math class.”

  “Oh okay. Well, listen, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot yesterday. I wanna make it up to you.”